Nyx POV
Nyx's Hooman is weird… Meaw.
Hooman talks to himself.
Hooman makes faces.
Sometimes Hooman laughs. Sometimes Hooman is sad.
Hooman gives me strange, good food.
It is called catnip.
I like catnip.
Hooman is good.
But Hooman is weird.
My Hooman gave me a task.
I must stay in Hooman's old home.
I must meaw.
I must spy on Hooman's mama and Dada and their friends.
Hooman says Snakeman controls Hooman's mama and Dada.
I always knew Snake is bad. Snake smells bad.
But my Hooman smells good.
And since Hooman is my friend, I am a good cat.
I help.
Hooman promised rewards.
Big hills.
Big rivers.
Cinema again.
Meaw… Cinema is good. I like cinema.
Hooman told me,
"When Snakeman comes, you tell me."
Hooman jumps into my head when I rest.
Then Hooman spies.
I nap.
This is fair trade.
There.
Snakeman comes.
Whoosh, like angry sky.
Hooman's mama comes.
Hooman's Dada comes.
Something is wrong.
Blood smell is everywhere.
Sharp. Hot. Bad.
I must call Hooman.
"Hooman.
My Hooman.
Your mama, Dada, and Snakeman are here.
Meaw.
Hooman.
My Hooman."
"I can hear you, Nyx," Hooman says.
"No need to shout. Give me a minute. I am coming in."
"Come fast, Hooman," I say.
"I am busy. Meaw."
"Yes, yes. One minute," says Hooman.
And whoosh.
Hooman is in my head.
"Hooman," I tell him.
"Your mama and Dada are here. Meaw..
But blood is everywhere.
Your Dada is hurt.
Mama is hurt.
Snakeman is very angry. Meaw.."
"Thank you, Nyx," Hooman says.
"You are such a good girl."
Hmmph.
I know.
Nyx is best. Meaw..
Hmmph. (🐈⬛✨)
_____________________________________
Lestrange Manor had never known sunshine and roses. Like England itself, it was weary, gloomy, and archaic. But tonight, even by its own grim standards, the manor felt darker.
The Main Hall was steeped in a stench of blood and fear so thick it seemed to seep into the ancient stones themselves. The walls, which had witnessed centuries of cruelty and ambition, felt heavy with unease.
Seated in the high-backed chair reserved for a Lord of House Lestrange sat a man who did not belong there.
His eyes burned an unnatural red. Anger radiated from him in palpable waves, coiling through the hall like a living thing. No one dared to speak. Even breathing felt like an act of defiance.
Lord Voldemort's gaze drifted slowly across the gathered figures, lingering just long enough on each to make them uncomfortable. His finger tapped the armrest in a slow, rhythmic motion. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Finally, he spoke.
"Today," he said softly, "I was disappointed."
The word landed harder than a curse.
"Today, I witnessed the so-called purest of blood tasting dirt. You clamor for vengeance. You cry for action. Yet when the moment arrives, you falter. You cower. You fail." His voice sharpened. "That is disappointing. And it is unacceptable."
Venom dripped from every syllable.
Abraxas Malfoy, ever the slipperiest among them, stepped forward cautiously. "My Lord, we were winning. Everything was under control. Then Dumbledore arrived with his entourage, and the situation changed."
Bellatrix followed at once, desperation barely contained. "My Lord, give us another chance. We will strike back at those blood traitors. We will prove our loyalty."
Voldemort's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile.
"I do not doubt your loyalty," he replied. "I knew Dumbledore would come today, just as he knew I would be there."
A silence followed.
"Do we have a mole, my Lord?" Bellatrix asked, her eyes darting sharply from face to face.
Several figures shifted uneasily.
Voldemort's gaze slid to a younger man standing among them. "What do you think, young Black? Regulus. Do we have a mole?"
Regulus inclined his head slightly. "Highly unlikely, my Lord. All present have dedicated themselves to the cause. However… I do have a theory."
Voldemort's tapping finger stilled. "Go on."
"At present," Regulus said carefully, "there are only two truly powerful figures in this country… perhaps even in this world. Albus Dumbledore. And you, my Lord."
A ripple of tension moved through the hall.
"By challenging Dumbledore's position, the unseen throne from which he prefers to guide the world, he was forced to respond. He needed a spectacle. A demonstration that he still reigns supreme."
Regulus paused, choosing his words with precision.
"You anticipated his actions, just as he anticipated yours. He did not intervene immediately. No. He waited until hope had nearly vanished, until despair was absolute. Only then did he arrive… to save the day. To reclaim the role of hero."
A faint, dangerous edge crept into his voice.
"Sometimes, I wonder whether the Headmaster truly belongs to Gryffindor. This kind of manipulation is something only a Slytherin would recognize."
The hall remained silent.
"By doing this," Regulus concluded, "Dumbledore has once again positioned himself as a beacon of hope."
And in the crimson glow of Voldemort's eyes, hope was the most unforgivable sin of all.
"I will destroy that hope," Lord Voldemort said softly.
"I will drag it into the mud. Trample it. And climb over its corpse to the summit."
Silence followed, thick and reverent.
"Of that, we have no doubt, my Lord," someone said quickly. "Dumbledore's power will wane, while yours will only rise."
"Yes, my Lord," others echoed, almost in unison.
Voldemort's gaze shifted.
"You need not tell me what I already know," he said coolly. "Thank you, Regulus, for your… insight."
Then his attention turned elsewhere.
"Abraxas, my friend," Voldemort continued, his voice measured, "Dumbledore's strength, his nature, his habits. None of these are unknown to me. That is precisely why I was present to counter him."
A pause.
"What I did not anticipate was this."
His eyes hardened.
"That my followers would be humiliated by blood traitors and mudbloods alike. We proclaim ourselves superior, and yet we are defeated by those we deem beneath us."
Abraxas inclined his head, sleek as ever, his tone smooth and controlled.
"My Lord, our inner circle was fully engaged. I was occupied with Fleamont Potter. Bellatrix with McGonagall. Rudolphus with Edgar Bones. Flitwick held Dolohov."
He lifted his eyes.
"Unfortunately, those assigned to Alastor Moody and Dorcas Meadowes failed to contain them. Once unleashed, they tore through our mid- and lower-ranked cadets, collapsing our formation and increasing the pressure on our elite."
A brief pause.
"Our junior comrades, my son, Regulus, and the others, were holding their own against James Potter's cohort. They did not break."
He spread his hands slightly.
"The difference, my Lord, was numbers at the highest tier. Had we possessed even a few additional top-level combatants, the outcome might have been… corrected."
What a lie, Corvus thought coldly.
You and your lord were being routed together. Now you twist the facts to shift the blame.
The distortion grated on him, but he remained silent. And he continued to listen in as the chamber went still once more.
Voldemort listened.
And remembered.
"Lestrange, my friend," Voldemort said at last, his voice smooth and unforgiving. "You were absent today. At Potter's wedding."
A pause.
"Your sons and your daughter-in-law were present. That does not absolve you of your responsibilities. Or have you forgotten the cause of this revolution?"
Lestrange bowed deeply.
"I apologize, my Lord."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed.
"And the reason?"
"I was being chased by a herd of enraged Hypogriffs."
Silence.
"Explain."
"It was my grandson, my Lord," Lestrange continued carefully. "He was testing a newly enchanted device on the creatures. Naturally, they took offense. I attempted to intervene, fearing for his life, only to find myself nearly torn apart and trampled beneath their hooves… while my grandson stood safely protected, laughing at my predicament."
He inclined his head again.
"I regret the inconvenience."
Then, deliberately,
"However, I believe I have identified a solution to the problem plaguing our cadets."
Voldemort's gaze sharpened.
"Go on."
Well played, Grandfather, Corvus thought.
Lord Lestrange inclined his head slightly, the gesture perfectly measured.
"My grandson," he began, voice calm and almost fond, "has always been… anxious about the well-being of his parents, his uncle, his godfather, and myself. Concern, as you know, breeds creativity. And necessity sharpens it further."
A pause. Every eye in the chamber was fixed on him now.
"He wished to ensure safety," Lestrange continued, "and, if possible, profit. So for the past year, he has devoted himself to the creation of a device. One that could grant unlimited shielding, speed, invisibility, and escape."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
"He failed," Lestrange said plainly. "Spectacularly."
Some smirked.
"But from that failure," he added, lifting his left arm, "something else was born."
A black gauntlet encased his forearm. Chains of dark metal ran from its core, linking to four rings fitted snugly on his fingers. Runes shimmered faintly along their surface, like embers breathing in the dark.
"This," Lestrange announced, "is Octatrix. Eight tricks."
He smiled.
"Rabastan."
"Yes, Father."
"Stun me."
Rabastan did not hesitate.
"Stupefy!"
A blue shimmer snapped into existence before Lestrange, forming a translucent shield. The spell struck it and dispersed harmlessly.
"Do continue," Lestrange said mildly. "Bellatrix. Rudolphus. Don't be shy."
They attacked in unison.
And Lestrange vanished.
A blink later, he reappeared behind them.
"Looking for me?"
Bellatrix spun around. Too late.
Lestrange vanished again, reappearing where he had stood originally. Bellatrix fired instinctively.
The spell passed straight through him.
His body flickered.
The curse struck a Death Eater behind him instead.
Then Lestrange split into three identical figures, each smiling.
"Why can't you find me?"
Bellatrix's patience snapped. But before a syllable could leave her lips, her wand flew from her hand. So did Rudolphus's. And Rabastan's.
Four wands clattered against the stone floor.
"Thank you, my sons and daughter-in-law," Lestrange said pleasantly. "For indulging an old man's amusement."
The hall buzzed now. Curiosity gnawed at discipline.
Mulciber scoffed loudly. "Enough theatrics, Lestrange. Get on with it. If this is another Gold Cauldron disaster, I'll split you in half."
Lestrange chuckled. "Ah, Mulciber. Trust is such a rare currency these days."
He turned back to Voldemort.
"As I was saying, my Lord. Octatrix grants eight functions. Shielding. Invisibility. Enhanced speed. Light-based clones."
"It is of limited value to elites," he admitted smoothly, "but for our… cadets? It is a blessing."
"A shield can be broken with sufficient force. Each function lasts roughly a minute. The device itself is costly, and can only be recharged once."
He smiled wider.
"But," he said, tapping the gauntlet, "it does not draw upon the user's magical reserves while active."
A ripple of interest. That landed.
"Our weaker forces can outlast, outmaneuver, and overwhelm opponents without exhausting themselves."
He glanced at Rabastan.
"With this," Lestrange added lightly, "even my son could survive a confrontation with Moody."
A low laugh spread.
"Of course," he added quickly, bowing his head toward Voldemort, "for you, my Lord, this is nothing but a parlor trick."
Voldemort had been silent.
Then he smiled.
"A remarkable invention," he said softly. "How old is your grandson?"
"Eight, my Lord. Yet to attend Hogwarts."
Silence.
Then Voldemort spoke again.
"Bellatrix. Rudolphus. You have raised… well."
Rudolphus smirked. Bellatrix lifted her chin, pride gleaming like a blade.
Regulus stepped forward.
"There is more, my Lord," he said smoothly. "With this, we can shift the war itself. Inferior versions could be sold to the Ministry. To mercenaries. To anyone desperate enough."
A pause.
"They fund us. We outpace them. They grow weaker while we grow richer. A conspiracy so blatant the Ministry cannot refuse it."
Regulus turned toward Lestrange.
"I underestimated you, Lord Lestrange. Such vision deserves support. The Black family will invest. For the revolution."
"The Malfoys as well," Abraxas said immediately.
"Nott," another voice added.
More followed.
Lestrange looked… displeased. As though thousands of galleons had just slipped through his fingers.
Inside, he was delighted.
Hook, line, and sinker, Corvus thought, listening from afar. Well played, Grandfather. Well played, Godfather.
Lestrange sighed theatrically.
"My Lord," he said, almost mournfully, "I had hoped to place this venture under your name. An enterprise led by you. Profits measured in millions."
Voldemort waved a hand dismissively.
"Gold does not interest me. Results do. Decide amongst yourselves."
Abraxas leaned forward. "Then let us form an enterprise. Shares based on investment. Operational costs secured. Is this the only prototype?"
"This," Lestrange replied, "is what my grandson calls a prototype, Lord Malfoy. I awaited our Lord's approval before proceeding further."
Voldemort stood.
"Give it to me."
Lestrange complied at once.
Voldemort examined the gauntlet carefully.
"Layered runic spell-equivalents," he murmured. "An orchestrator rune for thought differentiation… and this?"
He frowned.
"Galleons?"
"Yes, my Lord. Enchanted cores. Though my grandson has devised cheaper alternatives. Less durable, but viable."
"Very good," Voldemort said. He set the gauntlet down. "Next time, bring the boy. I wish to meet him."
The room stiffened.
"We lie low," Voldemort continued. "Let Dumbledore celebrate. Let them savor their sweetness."
A thin smile.
"It will turn bitter soon enough."
"Dismissed."
Lestrange dropped to one knee.
"All hail the Dark Lord."
The chant followed.
And Voldemort smiled.